


well this is your fault

by redperil



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Balcony Scene, M/M, shouldn't have rewatched this movie but here i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:06:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redperil/pseuds/redperil
Summary: Illya's confrontation with Napoleon over the tape goes about as well as Illya expected it to, which is to say terribly.





	well this is your fault

In the haze of rage, Illya does not have to think. There is only the need to destroy, to release his anger in the only way he knows how. It is only until the rage recedes and his hotel room is thoroughly wrecked that his thoughts begin to surface. 

His hands still tremble, the sting of humiliation and betrayal keeping him on the edge of another episode. His thoughts are a constant contradiction of one another, visions of snapping Napoleon's neck chased by the memory of watery lungs and a night sky, the strange feeling of being supported, held afloat. He thinks of Napoleon, lighthearted after the bomb was recovered, lying to his face about the fate of the tape.

The worst part remains that Illya should have know, or at least suspected. Instead he had trusted this thief, this _American spy,_ and his handlers had needed to step in.

Illya is standing in front of Napoleon's door, hands shaking. He wrestles control from his mind; he needs to appear normal. Here for a drink, mission well done. Acting had never been his strong suit.

_Kill the American if necessary._

The gun in his jacket feels strangely heavy.

Despite the sting of betrayal, Illya knows he should never have expected any modicum of integrity from the enemy. Just as he knows that somewhere along the way, Napoleon had ceased to be an enemy to him. An elaborate act to earn his trust. Every smile, every outstretched hand, every infuriatingly fond _Peril._

His hands are trembling but only slightly. He forms a fist and knocks only a touch too hard. 

Napoleon opens to door, impeccable in his beloved suit and pomade. He is talking to him, offering him a drink, saying meaningless pleasantries about the mission he believes to be over. The words barely register as Illya's mind seizes, grappling for composure. He turns to the decanter and pours a drink to mask his trembling hands. Napoleon turns around to continue packing and then Illya sees the tape, barely concealed beneath grey slacks. 

Illya tracks Napoleon's every motion with a practiced gaze. His rage is replaced by the familiar hum of an impending kill. Napoleon is still turned away, bent over his suitcase. Illya can see the smallest glimpse of a gun lying inside. "Got something for you," Napoleon says. Illya senses the slightest shift in his posture as he makes the turn, to grab his gun and shoot, but Illya has always been faster.

Illya pulls the gun from his jacket and aims in one motion, one thought, shooting Napoleon just as he turns, crossing the room to grab him by the throat before he collapses. Blood blossoms across Napoleon's dress shirt, the bullet having shot clean through the side of his torso and into the wall. 

Illya is not sure what weakness made his aim shift from a lethal target. It is necessary that the American spy dies, if the tape's continued existence is to be hidden. 

His left hand moves to remove the gun from Napoleon's grip but is met with nothing but leather and glass. He glances down at the watch in Napoleon's grip, his _father's_ watch, and feels the weight of his mistake slam into him. 

"You—" he meets Napoleon's eyes, wide with alarm. Illya releases his grip on Napoleon's throat. 

He abruptly picks Napoleon up from under his knees, lowering him to the bed. Confusion and rage, this time directed internally, makes Illya's vision blur for a moment. He has no plan, no cohesive thoughts. Napoleon wasn't about to shoot him, but he is now shot. Napoleon is the enemy, an enemy who retrieved his father's watch for him. 

Napoleon's eyes are very pale up close, a washed out blue. They are wide, wider than Illya has ever seen, and slightly unfocused from the pain. He looks as he did strapped to that chair. Illya feels distinctly sick. 

"Fucking hell, Peril." Napoleon grits out, bringing Illya back to the present. His eyes are startlingly clear as he fixes his gaze of Illya in an expression that lacks the anger he expects and deserves. Instead there is exasperation, pain. Even an insane bit of understanding. "The tape?"

"You have it." _And you're bleeding out._ "Talk about tape later. Where is medical kit?" 

"Bathroom, mirror shelf." 

Illya patches the flesh wound, the heavy silence punctuated only by Napoleon's running string of expletives. His hands are steady as he fixes the last of the bandages on, despite the storm in his mind. He is no less confused than when he entered Napoleon's room, only a world more guilty. 

"I was going to destroy the tape, you know." Napoleon says, voice just a bit weaker than normal. Illya flinches. "You know this tape shouldn't be in any country's hands."

He is right. Illya, weaponized pawn that he is, had scarcely considered the repercussions of handing the USSR total nuclear supremacy. He wants to agree with Napoleon, wants to apologize for doubting him. For shooting him. 

Instead he says, "You have my father's watch." 

Napoleon looks over at him and Illya barely manages to hold his gaze. "Thought you'd want it back." He holds the watch out and Illya takes it and latches it to his wrist almost immediately. He stares at the red seeping through white bandages and swallows hard, hands trembling. 

"Thank you." he says quietly.

Napoleon nods just slightly, eyes sliding shut, brows slightly furrowed from the pain. Illya thinks he could pass for a corpse in this state, with his bloodstained clothes and pale skin. He wishes he'd open his eyes. 

"So," Napoleon says, with the tone he only uses when the situation is precarious and he is carefully choosing his words. "Forgive me, but I don't understand what you're trying to do here."

Illya blinks. "I would ask you same question."

"Excuse me?"

"CIA would let you destroy tape?" he asks, glancing at the blue case itself.

Napoleon's eyes open for just a moment to shoot Illya a glare. "Well, I believe I recieved the same orders as you regarding the tape. Like I said, no one should have it. The CIA would never know."

"KGB would kill over such action."

"You think the CIA wouldn't?" Napoleon says. 

Illya frowns. If they destroy the tape and someone finds out, they are dead men. Not that they aren't already, several times over. Napoleon has bled completely through his bandages, red seeping onto the sheets. "You will need medical attention." he says, because nothing else will come to mind.

"Oh, so you're not killing me?" Napoleon's tone is light but Illya can detect the slightest hint of apprehension. 

Illya sighs. "Cowboy, if I want to kill you--"

"--I would be dead, duly noted." Napoleon cuts in. "I guess I can't fault you for thinking I was pulling a gun on you."

The guilt grows. He would rather Napoleon be angry than understanding. He has never shot someone and then had amicable bedside conversation with them. He has not felt such guilt after pulling the trigger in so many years. 

"I will destroy tape." Illya says firmly. "I--Cowboy. _Napoleon._ "

Illya shakes Napoleon by the shoulder sharply, blue eyes snapping open in annoyance. "Call the hospital already."

"Do not close your eyes."

"Don't tell me what to do." Napoleon mutters, and Illya feels something disturbingly similar to fondness pang in his chest. 

Illya stands suddenly. There is a wide circle of red on the bed; the bleeding has not stopped. "I will tell Gaby to contact Waverly, have his medics attend to you. Do not fall asleep." 

"Roger, Peril." 

 

Napoleon is asleep when he returns. Illya doesn't like the way his chest tightens at the sight. He shakes him but only succeeds in flopping Napoleon's head to the side. Gaby runs into the room and shoots Illya a glare.

"You shot him?" she asks. He wonders if he looks as guilty as he feels. 

He avoids the question. "Your medics are coming?"

"A minute or two out." 

Illya nods, walking around the bed to up the little blue tape that had started this entire mission. He cracks open the case and sets the contents on fire, shoving the smoldering remnants of it into his jacket when the medics come rushing in. 

He resists the urge to demand a place in the emergency vehicle. He resists the urge to feel the pulse in Napoleon's wrist, steps back as the medics crowd in. 

The British man, Waverly, steps inside silently after Napoleon is carted away. Illya sees his eyes flicker from the blood on Illya's hands to the bloodied bed to the smoke winding from Illya's jacket and heave a sigh.

"I was already heading here to inform you that you and Solo here have been loaned to my organization as partners. Should I be concerned?"

"No, sir." Illya answers. Waverly lifts an eyebrow. "I made a mistake. Thought he was going to shoot." 

"I'll keep them in line." Gaby says. 

Waverly smiles tightly. "Of that I have no doubt."

 

***

 

Illya doesn't go with Gaby to the hospital. He is briefed by Oleg on his reassignment to U.N.C.L.E. and then walks through the backstreets of Rome to his safe house, red stained hands shoved into his pockets. He washes the blood from his hands, changes his clothes, cleans his gun, and tries to understand his new reality. 

It all seems like a strange dream. He has never been more conflicted in his life. 

Days ago, he would have been seeing red. He had been angry enough after being assigned to one job with the American; now he was looking at a near permanent partnership. With a CIA agent. A thief. 

And yet, Illya isn't upset. He is confused, which is unusual, and he is almost happy, which is terrifying. 

It was that damn boat crash, he thinks. It must have started then. The American had just been all that he'd expected and despised, arrogant and steeped in his luxuries, ridiculously vain. He had abandoned him on the boat and Illya had expected no better of him. He had held him aloft in the water and dragged him to the bank. He had found his father's watch. 

And Illya had shot him. 

He needs to make amends. 

The hospital building was easy to infiltrate after closing, halls dark and empty of visitors. The lock to Napoleon's room was so easy to pick it may well have been open. Illya steps inside and closes the door silently. It's strange to see Napoleon asleep; he looks too soft. His hair is surprisinglyy curly as it escapes the pomade, his frame smaller without the tailored suit. His face wears no masked expression.

Illya steps closer to the bed and leans over, wondering how to wake him. Spies are always tricky; they lash out from any vulnerable state, automatically defensive. He moves to lightly shake him by the shoulder. Blue eyes, strangely illuminated by the hallway lights, make him freeze. 

"Come to finish the job?" The same tone as before, light but not wholly joking. Their faces are too close; Ilya straightens sharply. "What are you doing here?"

Illya blinks at him. Suddenly, he isn't quite sure himself. "I burned the tape." he says, when nothing else comes to mind. "Has Waverly spoken to you?"

"About our promising partnership? Why yes." Napoleon does not appear frustrated in the slightest by the news that he is now to be relying upon a KGB agent. One that just shot him. "Is that why you're here? To ask for a divorce?"

"I am here to-" Illya doesn't know. Apologize? "To discuss. If this reassignment will work."

"Peril, I don't think we have much of a choice in the matter."

"I know this." Illya stops looking him in the eye. He can't find appropriate words. "But partners cannot-"

"Shoot each other?" Something in his expression must have changed, because Napoleon's tone softens. "You know, they say bad things come in threes."

"What?" Illya says.

"It's a superstition. Since you've tried to kill me three times now, I'd say we're in the clear. Right, Illya?'

"Yes." It is disconcerting to hear his name spoken out loud, especially by Napoleon. "I... I apologize. For trying to kill you."

Napoleon gives a short laugh. "Didn't expect any less of you, Red."

"Shut up, Cowboy."

**Author's Note:**

> It's like three am hope you enjoyed this


End file.
